


He's Sherlock

by CornishKid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Drug Use, F/M, Holmes Brothers, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Overdose, Pining Sherlock, Protective Mycroft, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CornishKid/pseuds/CornishKid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes knew when he was seven years old that he would spend the rest of his life looking after his younger brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This story can be read as a companion story to my "Violet Hour" series, or as a stand-alone. I may do a sequel after I've finished that. Not Brit-picked or Beta'd.

Mycroft Holmes knew when he was seven years old that he would spend his life looking after his younger brother. When his parents returned from hospital with a squirming blue-swathed bundle, Mycroft was determined to hate the "little cretin" as he had decided to call it, but Ford had made him promise to be nice. So Mycroft bit back on all the nasty insults he wanted to fling on his baby brother, gritted his teeth, and looked at the tiny creature his mother offered up to him with disdain.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Mummy said. "That's what we've decided to call him."

Mycroft snorted.

"That's a mouthful," said Ford. "How about a nickname?"

"Will?" father suggested. "Bill? Billy?"

Mycroft had been ignoring them during his appraisal of the new baby. Then the little boy yawned and blinked open his tiny eyes to peer up at Mycroft.

Logically, Mycroft  _knew_ his brother couldn't see him yet. Babies couldn't see for several weeks after birth. But he couldn't shake the feeling, as he stared into those tiny, icy blue-green-grey eyes that the baby was staring right back at him in a silent challenge, as if asking, "Are you  _really_ going to let them get away with calling me  _Billy_?"

So Mycroft stood up for his brother for the first of many times and announced to the family, "He's Sherlock."

* * *

 

Sherlock didn't speak until he was five years old. At least, that's what everyone besides Mycroft believed.

Mother and Father started worrying when Sherlock turned two and still hadn't uttered a word. They took him to several specialists -- the best in the field -- who all concluded the same thing: Sherlock understood things perfectly well, better than most children his age. He just chose not to say anything.

Mother wouldn't accept this explanation. She did everything she could to coax Sherlock into saying something. She bribed him with sweets, toys, chocolates... nothing worked.

When Sherlock was three and Mycroft was ten, mother and father left them home alone together while they took Ford out for his violin recital. Sherlock waddled in to the sitting room where Mycroft was reading and announced loudly, "Bored!"

Mycroft looked up from his book and stared at Sherlock for a long while. Sherlock blinked back at him through a mess of tangled black curls, and said, "Mycroft, I'm bored!"

So Mycroft taught him deductions. They turned on the tele and Mycroft showed his brother how to read all about peoples' lives from their clothing, hair, make-up, carriage, and so on.

When they heard the car pull into the drive several hours later, Sherlock's eyes went wide. He turned to Mycroft and said, "Don't tell them."

"Why?" said Mycroft.

Sherlock shrugged and said, "They wouldn't understand."

* * *

 

Despite the connection Mycroft and Sherlock shared, it was obvious that Ford was the favorite brother. How could he not be, really? Ford was charming, handsome, compassionate -- all-around a prime example of what a proper young British lad should be. Everything that Mycroft lacked (musical prowess, charisma, good looks) Ford possessed in strides.

True, Sherlock would only speak to Mycroft, and only when no one else was around. But he watched Ford with such rapt attention that Mycroft supposed there must be a permanent image of the eldest Holmes etched into Sherlock's brain. Sherlock mimicked him, too. He demanded (silently) that Ford teach him the violin when he was four. Ford bought him a toy version that Sherlock would play with at all hours. Even Mummy grew tired of the constant screeching, and took the instrument away after the third restless night, which prompted Sherlock to throw a tantrum for another two days.

Later the same year, Ford left home to begin his first year of Uni (pre-med). Sherlock was devastated; he didn't leave his room for nearly a month. When Ford returned home for Christmas, though, he brought with him an Irish Settler puppy. It wasn't a surprise to Mycroft at all that when Sherlock laid eyes on it, he squealed, "Redbeard!" in front of the entire family, and flung his arms around the little dog.

There was a beat of silence, and then Mummy burst into tears. Father and Ford both laughed broadly and clapped one another on the back. Mycroft stared at the scene for a long while in shock. A queasy feeling began to unfurl in the pit of his stomach as he watched Sherlock rub the dog's belly, chattering away to the creature as if he'd been speaking the whole while.

Which he _had_ , but now the whole family knew. Mycroft had kept his brother's secret for almost two years. He'd stayed up late at night telling Sherlock stories and playing deductions, all the while feigning concern for his brother when Mummy carted him off to his therapy appointments.

Then Ford brought home a bloody (Mycroft wasn't supposed to know that word yet; he'd heard father exclaim it after stubbing his toe on Mummy's vanity) puppy, and Sherlock suddenly refused to shut up.

Mummy kissing Ford sloppily on the cheek and then proceeding to sob on his shoulder was the final straw. Nobody noticed when Mycroft sulked off to his bedroom and slammed the door. He flung himself on his bed and sobbed into his pillow for a long time, all the while thinking he was being very childish for allowing himself to get so upset.

*          *          *

Mycroft woke (he hadn't noticed he'd fallen asleep) to the sensation of something warm, wet, and smelly lapping at his face. A tongue, he realized with a jolt, and he jerked upright. _Redbeard_ , the offending party, yipped happily and wagged his tail.

"You've been crying."

Sherlock sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, his bright eyes darting across Mycroft's face.

"No, I haven't," Mycroft lied.

"Your eyes are red," said Sherlock, "and your face was stuck to your pillow. There's some congealed snot hanging from your nostrils as well."

"Don't be smart, Sherlock," said Mycroft.

"I _am_ smart. Redbeard is smart too. He can already sit and lie down when I tell him, look -- Redbeard,  _sit_!"

Redbeard cocked his head at Sherlock, but otherwise didn't move.

"Impressive," said Mycroft dryly.

"We're still working on it," said Sherlock.

"Clearly. Do it somewhere else."

"Mummy says to tell you dinner is ready."

"I'm not hungry."

"She's made Shepard's Pie, Ford's favorite --"

"I don't bloody care, Sherlock!" Mycroft roared. "Get out of my room!"

Sherlock's lower lip trembled.

"Why are you being so mean?"

"Because you are a very stupid boy, and I don't want your stupid contaminating my things!"

Mycroft buried his face in his pillow once again and din't watch as Sherlock ran from the room, sobbing, with Redbeard whimpering alongside him. 

Mummy grounded Mycroft for a month: two weeks for swearing, and two weeks for calling Sherlock stupid. Ford let Sherlock keep the dog.

* * *

 

Sherlock attended his first day of primary school in a striped shirt, ripped trousers, a red bandana, and a single gold hoop clipped on to his left ear. Mycroft tried to talk him out of it, but mother let him go. Said he should get to show off his character. Mycroft looked on anxiously as Sherlock and Redbeard chased one another around the table at breakfast, Sherlock swinging a plastic sword around.

"They'll make fun of him," Mycroft told Mummy.

"Of course they won't," Mummy replied. "He's a darling boy. Everyone will love him."

Later in the evening, she conceded defeat as she pressed a bag of frozen peas to Sherlock's black eye and stitched his ear up from where the earring had been ripped off. Redbeard sat solemnly by his master with his head resting on Sherlock's lap. Mycroft watched the scene, his fists clenched on the armrest of his chair.

After dinner, Sherlock knocked softly on Mycroft's door. Mycroft, who was sitting at his desk, called, "Come in!" and Sherlock entered and sat cross-legged on the foot of Mycroft's bed. His eye had almost completely swollen shut, and his mangled ear was hidden under a layer of gauze and tape.

"What's a 'faggot?'" Sherlock asked quietly.

Mycroft stomach dropped. He sighed and set his pen back on top of his notebook.

"A very cruel name to call a person who prefers romantic relationships with someone of the same gender."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Is it wrong?"

"Not at all," said Mycroft. "But not everyone thinks so."

"I don't know if I like people of the same gender," said Sherlock, frowning. "Why did Eric call me a f --?"

"Don't repeat it, please," said Mycroft.

"Sorry," said Sherlock, eyes dropping. "Why did he call me that word?"

"I don't know, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "He's an ignorant little boy. Try to stay away from him from now on."

Sherlock nodded. And then he asked, "Would it be alright if I liked boys?"

"Of course," said Mycroft. "But you've got a long time to go before you need to think about that."

Mycroft made Sherlock a cup of cocoa before they were sent to bed. Then, in the dead of night, Mycroft sneaked out of the house and insured that ignorant Eric, at least, would never hurt Sherlock Holmes again.

* * *

 

Sherlock was seven when Redbeard got cancer and had to be put down. Sherlock demanded that his pet be buried at sea, so father gave the boys permission to drive out to the ocean. While Sherlock spoke words over the sandy log marking Redbeard's grave, Mycroft couldn't help but note smugly that Ford hadn't made it home for the funeral.

* * *

 

Four years later, a boy from a neighboring town was found dead in a swimming pool. Sherlock thought it was murder, and tried to convince everyone of the same. Only Mycroft agreed, but when he declined to back Sherlock's story to their parents and the police, Sherlock locked himself in his room for a week and refused to acknowledge Mycroft's existence for several months.

Mycroft tried not to be bothered by this. Instead, he devoted his time to finding out everything he could about James Moriarty.

* * *

Mycroft was asked to join the British Secret Service before he'd finished his time at Uni. A large man in an expensive-looking suit was waiting for him one day outside his political history course. The man, Colonel Moran according to his ID badge, led Mycroft to a sleek black car at the rear of the building.

In the back of his mind, Mycroft knew he should be scared, but he felt perfectly calm. In fact, this whole experience seemed rather normal, as if it was a facet of Mycroft's life that was always meant to be there.

Colonel Moran led him to a bunker deep underneath the Parliament building. He bade Mycroft goodbye outside a door marked 'General Warren' and left.

"Enter," a gruff voice called from inside the room.

The office was clean, containing nothing more than a desk, two chairs, and a phone. Behind the desk sat the most severe-looking man Mycroft had ever seen.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said. "Pleased to meet you. Have a seat."

General Warren (Mycroft assumed that was the man's name; he'd never officially introduced himself) explained how the Secret Service had been keeping their eye on him since he'd gotten top marks on his exams first term, and that they wanted to recruit him.

"For what kind of work?" Mycroft asked.

"Classified," answered General Warren, "pending your acceptance."

"How can I accept if I don't know what kind of work I'd be doing?"

General Warren smirked.

"That's a risk you'll have to take.

*          *          *

Mycroft returned home that same weekend to share his news with the family. They'd be proud, he knew. Father would bring out the good brandy, Mummy would cry and hug him so tightly that he wouldn't be able to breathe. Ford would probably come home for a visit, and Sherlock... Sherlock would scoff and call Mycroft boring. But one look at Mycroft and Sherlock would understand -- it wasn't just some  _boring_ government job. Then Sherlock would be the one keeping secrets.

Such a welcome was not what awaited Mycroft when he arrived home. He'd been half convinced the house was empty, but the car in the drive indicated otherwise.

"Hello?" he called upon stepping over the hearth. "It's Mycroft! I'm home!"

He found his family in the kitchen -- Mother and Father were locked in an embrace at one end of the table (Mummy was sobbing into the lapels of Father's jacket). Sherlock sat at the other end -- he'd grown at least four inches since Mycroft had last seen him. His limbs were long and lanky and his hair -- messy before -- was now positively unruly. To a casual observer, he would appear bored by whatever was going on. Mycroft spotted the tell-tale clench in his brother's jaw that indicated anxiety.

 "What's happened?" Mycroft asked.

Mummy only sobbed harder.

"It's Sherrinford," Father explained. "He's joined the RAMC."

Mycroft felt his breath hitch. England had just entered the Gulf War. Of course Ford would enlist; he never could resist being the hero. 

"Mother," said Mycroft reassuringly. "The conflict isn't likely to last long. I give it six months."

Mummy nodded, but her crying didn't abate.

"I --" Mycroft began, and then he hesitated and cleared his throat. "I've got some news as well."

All eyes in the room fixed on him.

"I've been offered a job," he announced.

"Wh-what sort of job?" Mummy croaked.

"He can't say," said Sherlock, and Mycroft couldn't help but start at the way his voice had shifted. "British Secret Service, right? Classified."

"I --" Mycroft stammered.

"Can't confirm or deny," Sherlock finished.

"Sherlock," Mummy said disapprovingly, "we've discussed this. It's rude to assume things like that about people."

"It's alright, mother," said Mycroft.

"Oh, but we'll talk about that later," said Mummy. She blew her nose into a handkerchief and rose to her feet to embrace Mycroft. When she'd pulled away she asked, "Is Sherlock right? Is it top secret sort of stuff, this new position of yours?"

Mycroft's first inclination was to lie, but before he got a chance, Sherlock interrupted.

"Mum, he can't tell you that."

"Of course, of course," Mummy replied, waving her hand. "Just tell me one thing, Myc -- is it dangerous what you're doing? Because if I find out today that two of my sons --"

Her voice had begun to go shrill again, so Mycroft said quickly, "No, Mother. Just a lot of data analysis and paper pushing, really."

Sherlock's brow twitched, but he didn't say anything. Mummy nodded and sniffed.

"I -- I hate to ask," she said, "and I don't suppose you'll get a chance anyway, but if you could just keep an eye on Ford -- you don't have to report to me or anything that would get you in trouble. I'd just feel much better if I knew  _someone_ was looking after him."

Of course," said Mycroft. And for some reason, he looked right at Sherlock when he added, "I promise to keep him safe, too."

* * *

 

The first time Mycroft broke a promise to his family came about two months later, on Christmas day. He and several other junior officials were pulled into the briefing room early in the morning to consult on a highly classified mission. The enemy, it seemed, had been informed of the impending attack.

"If we send these boys in now," Colonel Jones was saying, "we're sending them into a trap."

"If we pull them back," Colonel Moran countered, "we're putting our informants at risk. Troops we can replace. Special Agents, we cannot."

Mycroft privately agreed with Moran, or he would have if he'd been listening. He was staring at the list that had been past to him -- the list of troops to be deployed. Most were meaningless to him -- just names on a piece of paper -- but the final two were slowly etching themselves on the inside of his skull.

 

_Pr. Peter Moriarty_

_Dr. Sherrinford Holmes, M.D._

 

General Warren's voice induced a pregnant silence over the room.

"Holmes, what do you think?"

The room was quiet for a moment all faces in the room turned to Mycroft.

"General Warren, sir, with respect --" said Jones, "-- Holmes has only been here a month, he's hardly qualified to --"

"I agree with Moran," said Mycroft. "Pulling the troops back now would only expose our operatives, and that's a risk we cannot afford to take."

"And what about the troops?" Jones cried. "That's fifteen men you're sentencing to death, boy!"

"Collateral damage," said Mycroft coldly. "A necessary evil in times of war."

"Collateral -- for God's sake, one of those men is your own brother!"

Mycroft struggled to sound indifferent.

"Sherrinford knew what he was risking when he enlisted, as did the other fourteen men on that list."

Jones scoffed.

"You sure do know how to pick 'em, sir," he spat at General Warren, who was staring at Mycroft.

"The mission moves forward as planned," he said. "You're all dismissed. And Holmes," he added as the men around the table stood, "I'm sorry."

*          *          *

When Mycroft received the call nearly twenty-four hours later, he didn't bother to answer it. Nor did he respond to the dozen or so messages that Mummy left for him on the answering machine. The last in the series was a curt reminder about the funeral, set for the second of January. Mycroft had no plans to attend.

*         *         *

Three days after Christmas, Mycroft received two letters: one from an anonymous sender that read,  _I will never forget -- X_ , and another from Sherlock that only asked,  _Why?_

_*          *          *_

The second of January came and went. Mycroft buried himself further in his work. His mother stopped calling, and he received no more letters. At the end of the month, England pulled out from the Gulf victorious, and Mycroft was given a promotion and the nickname "Ice Man."

* * *

 

The next time Mycroft spoke to his family Sherlock had begun his first term at Oxford; which was why Mummy paid his office a visit one early September morning. Mycroft received quite a shock when he opened the door to find her sitting on the opposite side of his desk.

"Mother!" he cried.

"Don't look so surprised," said Mummy. The warm tone Mycroft remembered had been replaced by one that was stern and clipped, and there were many new frown lines on her face. The roots of her hair had started to turn grey as well. "You'd know I was coming if you'd bother to return any of my calls."

"I've been very --" Mycroft began, but Mummy held up a hand to silence him.

"I don't want to hear about how busy you've been, Myc. We both know you've been avoiding the family."

Mycroft frowned, and crossed slowly to take his own seat. "Then why are you here?" he asked.

"It's about Sherlock," said Mummy. "He's... he's seeing someone, and I've got a funny feeling about him."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips.

"Please tell me this isn't a display of poorly blanketed homophobia."

"Don't use that tone with me," Mummy snapped. "It isn't. I don't care that Sherlock's seeing another man. I was happy for him at first. But this Sebastian Wilkes character -- he's not a good man. He's arrogant and rude and he treats Sherlock like a piece of property."

"All very unfortunate, I agree," said Mycroft. "But Sherlock's a grown man now.  What do you expect me to do about it?"

"I want you to put an end to it!" Mummy cried exasperatedly. "Find something on this boy: blackmail him, bribe him, I don't care. Just get him away from my son."

"What exactly is it you think I do here?" Mycroft sneered. "I can't waste resources on my little brother because my mother doesn't like his new boyfriend --"

"You owe me, Mycroft Siger Holmes," said Mummy in a low, dangerous voice.

To which Mycroft had no response other than to sink farther into his chair and wish it would swallow him up.

"I don't blame you, you know, for what happened to Ford," Mummy went on (more softly, now). "I never did. But you could have at least answered the phone."

And she left.

*          *          *

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, please come in --" Mycroft beckoned the young woman in with a wave of his hand and gestured for her to sit down.

"--Anthea," the woman offered, extending her hand as she approached Mycroft's desk.

Mycroft stared as he shook the woman's hand.

"Is that your real name, or the name they assigned you?" he asked.

The woman blinked at him nervously.

"I'm -- I'm not supposed to say," she replied.

"You learn quickly," Mycroft remarked. "Have you brought the files I asked for?"

"I have them here, sir," said Anthea. From within her shoulder bag, she with drew a Manila folder -- considerably thicker than Mycroft expected. "I have to ask -- what's it for?"

"A personal matter," said Mycroft as he took the file from her hand. "Nothing to worry the higher-ups about. Just idle curiosity."

"Are you allowed to do that?"

Mycroft flickered his gaze to her and raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to tell on me?" he asked.

Anthea stammered, "No, of course not sir, I just wondered --"

"Good. Then you'll be very useful." He motioned for her to take her leave. Before she could completely cross to the door, he called to her again. "I appreciate this, Anthea. Truly. Thank you."

She flashed him an awkward smile.

"Anytime, sir."

Once she had departed and closed the door behind her, Mycroft opened the file on Sebastian Wilkes and quickly began to commit every detail to memory.

*          *          *

Mycroft was very good at hiding -- when he wished to do so. It was times such as this when he actually thanked heaven and genetics for ensuring he wasn't something special to look at. An average person in appearance, with a clever enough mind to fool the average passerby. So while he sat in his quiet corner of an Oxford pub and watched Sebastian Wilkes snake an arm around the shoulder of his baby brother, not a single person bothered to glance in his direction.

Mother hadn't been kidding when she said Sebastian wasn't a good man. He was positively  _disgusting_. Mycroft couldn't hear what he was saying from his position, but he could practically  _see_ the arrogance oozing from the man's pores. And he couldhear Sebastian's boisterous, nasally laugh. At one rare point when he wasn't vying to be the center of attention, he cocked his head to whisper something into Sherlock's ear. Mycroft watched as Sherlock grimaced, and then quickly tried to cover his frown with a shy smile. This only caused Sebastian to laugh loudly again and interrupt whoever had been speaking, presumably to announce whatever had just passed between him and Sherlock.

_Sherlock_. Mycroft was, once again, amazed at how much his brother had changed in the few years since their last meeting. While Sherlock still retained some of the lankiness of his adolescence (Mycroft suspected Sherlock would never have a completely  _full_ physique), the chubbiness of his childhood had completely dissipated, leaving stark, angular features that looked as if they had been carved by a chisel. His hair was still long and wavy, though tamer; the locks now fell in delicate waves across his brow. He dressed differently, too -- in a tight button-down shirt with a blazer. He looked rather sophisticated, though Mycroft suspected that had more to do with Sebastian's criticism than Sherlock's own personal taste.

After Mycroft had been watching for about half an hour, Sherlock stood, presumably to go to the loo. Sebastian, in a display that made Mycroft's lip involuntarily curl, reached over and smacked Sherlock squarely on the behind. Sherlock gawked at him, which only served to send Sebastian into another round of laughter.

"Go on, then!" Mycroft heard Sebastian yell. "Hurry up and bring that pretty arse back here where it belongs."

Sherlock scurried off. Mycroft seized the opportunity to get up and cross to the bar, under the pretense of ordering another drink.

"Good God, Seb," said a rather large member of Sebastian's posse, "how can you stand him?"

Sebastian heaved a great sigh.

"Honestly? He's a damn good lay. And if I listen to him prattle on about who the bio-chem professor is fucking this week, he'll usually give me the answers to the study questions."

Mycroft clenched his fist on top of the bar.

"Well, good on you, then," said another companion, this one with a high, nasally voice. "I don't think I'd be able to keep it up if I had to listen to him all night."

"Luckily, I've got ways of shutting him up," said Sebastian with a cheeky grin.

Mycroft couldn't help himself; as soon as the bartender presented him with a drink, it "accidentally" was knocked onto Sebastian's table.

"Oi! Watch it!"

"Sorry," Mycroft grunted, and he stumbled back to his own table in an attempt to appear inebriated. On his way, he "caught" himself on Sebastian's table, slipping a tiny slip of paper into the man's lap as he righted himself. He plopped down into his seat not a moment too soon; Sherlock reappeared from the loo and took his place next to Sebastian once again. Sebastian ignored Sherlock's return, initially, his eyes darting quickly between Mycroft's message and Mycroft. Sherlock didn't take any notice, not even when, after a moment, Sebastian gave a tiny nod.

Mycroft was forced to endure another hour of seeing his brother contaminated by Sebastian's slimy hands. At one point he was forced to turn away when he saw Sebastian's arm slip under the table tellingly, inducing something of a grimace on Sherlock's face. It was all Mycroft could do to stop himself from walking over to their table and breaking each one of Sebastian's fingers.

At last, members of Sebastian's party began standing and darning their coats. Sherlock rose among them, but when Sebastian didn't move, he threw him a questioning glance.

"Go on," said Sebastian, almost irritably. "I'm staying for another round."

Sherlock hesitated, looking uncertain.

"Go!" said Sebastian hotly, and Sherlock scurried out.

Mycroft waited until he was sure Sebastian's party had left before he stood and crossed the bar to sit opposite Sebastian at the recently vacated table.

Sebastian smiled at him in a near-predatory fashion.

"Hello, sexy," he drawled. "What's your name?"

"Mycroft Holmes," said Mycroft humorlessly, "and you are Sebastian Wilkes."

 Sebastian's smirk faded slowly, as if he were waiting for the punch line of a joke.

"Holmes?" he repeated.

"That's right," said Mycroft. "I'm the elder brother of your -- well, I doubt  _lover_ is the proper term. Is it more accurate to call him a play thing?"

"You're dead," said Sebastian stupidly.

Mycroft sighed.

"Obviously not."

"No," said Sebastian. "I remember Sherlock telling me -- his older brother died in Iraq."

"So Sherrinford did," said Mycroft irritably. "I'm the other one."

Sebastian laughed suddenly.

"I get it now," he said. "This is Sherlock's idea of a prank. Very funny."

"I'm quite serious," said Mycroft. "I am Sherlock's brother, and I have come here to make you an offer."

"An offer?" Sebastian repeated incredulously.

"Correct. You end your...  _relationship_ with Sherlock, and you will find your Oxford tuition entirely paid for, and a comfortable job offer waiting for you upon your graduation."

Sebastian raised his eyebrows.

"My tuition is already paid for," he said.

"Is it?" said Mycroft. "How strange, considering your father was nearly bankrupted after the legal fees for his sexual harassment case."

"How the  _hell_ do you know --?"

"That is unimportant," said Mycroft. "Do you accept my offer, or not?"

Sebastian squirmed.

"What happens if I refuse?"

Mycroft shrugged.

"Nothing, I suppose. Although... yes, I seem to recall another interesting bit of information about you --" Mycroft rummaged around in his bag, "-- if I could just -- ah, yes. Here we are."

He withdrew a (slightly blurred, but still recognizable) security camera image and placed it before Sebastian's widened eyes.

"This was taken approximately two weeks ago in the Natural Sciences parking lot. That's you, there, is it not? A rather compromising position to be caught in with your Biochemistry professor. I'm sad to tell you that that is not the only record we have of Professor Hartwell's student rendez-vous, and you're not the only feature."

Sebastian reached across the table and shoved the photo back at Mycroft.

"So what?" he said. "I could cry harassment. Say he threatened to dock my grade. You'd be ruining a man's career."

"Do I seem the sort to be above that?" said Mycroft coldly. "Fine, then. If I haven't convinced you yet, then let me tell you this: I run a sizable portion of the British Secret Service. The first twenty-five numbers on my contact list are trained assassins, some of the best in the world, and half of my time is spent covering up their mistakes. I am very thorough, and very good at my job. In five years, I have taken down mob bosses, drug runners, smugglers, and world leaders. You are barely more than an ant at a picnic in my books, and one that I would not hesitate to squash if you continue to get in my way. Are we clear?"

In the end, Sebastian took the money and ran.

*          *          *

Mycroft should have expected it, really. Should have anticipated. Less than six hours after he left the Oxford pub, he received a call.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver.

There was a moment of tense silence on the other line, and then a deep baritone voice snarled, " _Stay. The fuck. Out. Of. My life."_

_Click_.

Sherlock wouldn't speak to Mycroft for almost five years, and the next time he did, he would be too high to remember his brother's name.

* * *

 It was Mummy who contacted him again, only this time they'd been maintaining something of a civil relationship. So when Mycroft answered his phone, he wasn't expecting a high, shrill voice to answer him.

"Yes, hello?" said Mycroft into the receiver. The car was leisurely rolling through the brightly lit London streets. Beside him, Anthea was texting away on her Blackberry.

"Mycroft!" Mummy sobbed.

"What is it, Mother?"

"It's Sh-Sherlock, he's --" the rest of Mummy's sentence dissolved into unintelligible cries.

"What, Mother?" Mycroft demanded urgently. "What's wrong with Sherlock?"

"Hes m-missing," said Mummy.

"Alright, alright," Mycroft replied soothingly. "Start from the beginning. Tell me what happened."

After a few deep breaths, Mummy explained:

Sherlock had returned home for a brief visit. At first, all things seemed normal; he was his usual, brooding self. Then, according to Mummy, he began to grow agitated. He was irritable, anxious, and would snap at the slightest provocation. Then he disappeared from the house for a few hours and returned perfectly calm again.

This such pattern went on for several days before Father grew suspicious enough to search Sherlock's room. Hidden under the mattress, he found a needle, tourniquet, and a one-ounce bag of heroin.

" _Heroin_ , Mycroft," said Mummy. "He's been doing _heroin_."

"What did he say when you confronted him about it?" asked Mycroft. His mouth felt unnaturally dry.

"We didn't," said Mummy. "He hasn't come back. Usually he's only gone an hour or two. This time it's been seven. He's not answering his phone, he's not at home, and none of his associates have seen him for weeks."

"I'll find him," said Mycroft determinedly. "I promise."

*          *          *

It was not difficult for Mycroft to track his brother. In truth, he'd had a few agents keeping tabs on Sherlock's whereabouts ever since the Sebastian incident. Over the past year, he'd only gone three places: his own flat, the chemistry lab at St. Bartholemew's hospital, and the residence of a man called Victor Trevor -- who, after a little digging, Mycroft discovered had been moonlighting as a back-alley smack dealer.

No great deductive leap necessary there.

Trevor's flat was near the shipyards, a notoriously crime-ridden neighborhood. As Mycroft walked the street, he kept his head low, his brolly clicking alongside him on the pavement with each step he took.

"Spare five quid, sir?"

Mycroft glanced sideways to see a ragged young woman extending a trackmarked arm to him.

"Afraid not," Mycroft replied, moving steadily forward.

"Please, sir," the woman insisted. "I'll toss you off for a fiver --"

"I said, 'no,'" Mycroft said threateningly. He quickened his pace in an attempt to shake the woman. Luckily, she seemed to have spotted a new prospect.

"Victor -- spare some change?"

Mycroft stopped in his tracks, his fist clenched on the handle of his brolly. With a glance over his shoulder he saw a tall muscular man with wide-set eyes and shocking red hair had stopped to talk with the woman.

"Of course, Lucy," said Victor in a gentle voice. He extended his hand out to her, his fist clenched around something that was clearly  _not_ a note.

Lucy grinned toothily back at him.

"Thanks," she said, and then skulked back off into the alleyway.

Victor turned to find Mycroft staring at him.

"You're not from this neighborhood," he said apprehensively.

"Obviously," said Mycroft.

"You a copper?"

"Of sorts," said Mycroft, and Victor visibly tensed. "Though I don't concern myself with petty drug deals, so you needn't worry yourself. I'm looking for someone."

"Sorry there, mate," Victor replied. "I don't help cops."

Victor made to move on past Mycroft, who raised his brolly to block the sidewalk.

"Sherlock Holmes," said Mycroft. "I believe he's been to see you."

Victor turned to glare at him. "Might have. Why?"

"I am concerned for him."

There was a moment of tense silence; Victor's eyes darted all across Mycroft's face, apparently trying to read his expression. Then his mouth opened to form a small "o."

"You're the meddling overprotective brother," he said. "Michael?"

"Mycroft."

"Right. Well, in that case, I'm especially not going to let you see him. Excuse me."

Victor pushed Mycroft's brolly aside and continued forward.

"If he's told you who I am then undoubtedly he's told you what I do, and what I have done to keep him safe," said Mycroft.

Victor guffawed loudly.

" _Safe_?" he repeated. "Is that what you think you did? You blackmailed his boyfriend into dumping him!"

"Sebastian was manipulative and abusive," said Mycroft. "I did what had to be done."

"You meddled," said Victor. "You should have let him make his own mistakes."

"Is that what you would have me do now? Stand back and watch as his addiction spirals out of control?"

"He  _needs_ it," Victor hissed. "You don't know what he's going through."

"He's my brother."

" _Please_. You haven't seen him in years; you haven't been there to watch as his mind punishes him so severely he can't speak. The drugs are the only thing that helps him."

Mycroft stared at him for a long time, a deduction formulating itself in the far reaches of his brain.

"You  _love_ him."

It wasn't a question, nor an accusation. It was a statement, an observation of sorts, and one that genuinely surprised Mycroft.

Victor blinked once.

"Yes," he said. "I do."

"Then  _how_ can you watch him do this?"

"If this kills him, he will have spent his last days in peace. I'd rather he have that than a lifetime of agony."

In a way, Mycroft understood. He didn't agree, and he wouldn't allow it to continue, but he understood.

*          *          *

 "Sir --"

"Is it done?"

"Yes, sir."

Mycroft turned from the window to look as the young Sergeant entered the room.

"Lestrade, is it?"

"Yes, sir," the Sergeant answered.

"Have a seat," said Mycroft. Lestrade obeyed.

"I appreciate this," said Mycroft as he took his own chair. "I know it's not your usual division. I needed absolute discretion."

"I understand sir," Lestrade answered gruffly.

"There will be a promotion in this for you," said Mycroft. "How does Detective Inspector sound?"

"Very good, sir," said Lestrade. "But --" he hesitated.

"What?"

"Forgive me -- I don't understand why someone like you was interested in this case. Victor Trevor is practically nobody. A patrol officer probably would have picked him up within the month. He'd violated his parole enough times -- there was a warrant out and everything."

"Suffice it to say I found myself personally invested," said Mycroft, in a tone that indicated he had no interest in discussing the matter further.

Lestrade stared blankly for a moment before realization dawned on his face.

Mycroft sighed, and continued.

"Speaking of which: the young man you pulled from Trevor's house -- how is he?" 

 "Still in the hospital. Dehydration, mild malnutrition, and sleep deprivation the doctor says. And of course, the drugs."

"Of course," said Mycroft tightly.

"They say he should be ready to leave in a few days," said Lestrade. "What do you plan to do with him after that?"

"There's a highly respected rehabilitation facility in Sussex. He's due to check in next Monday."

"And after that?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the man.

"Sorry," said Lestrade quickly. "You just seem rather concerned about him. I thought you might have a plan for him once he gets out."

"My brother," said Mycroft, and Lestrade's eyes went wide at the revelation, "is a brilliant man. He could do anything he likes. He's also sure to resent me when he's sober, and I sincerely doubt he'll ever listen to another word I say."

"No, I expect not," said Lestrade. His brow furrowed. "Brilliant, you say?"

"A genius," Mycroft replied.

"Uh-huh. Well, maybe he'll never listen to you, but he's got no reason to hate me. Not yet."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I think I know just the thing to keep him out of trouble.

* * *

 

Mycroft's arrangement with Lestrade and Scotland Yard worked very well for almost an entire year. Sherlock didn't know of Mycroft's involvement -- or if he did, he went along with it anyway. The best he knew, he'd recovered from the haze of withdrawals to find the officer who'd put his dealer into prison waiting for him with a job offer.

 Of course, as Mycroft thought on with amusement, Sherlock wouldn't take on an ordinary job at the Yard. No, he had to invent his own position: Consulting Detective. He was free to investigate when and how he saw fit, and he was in now way hindered by the oaths and codes that burdened the other officers.

Which, naturally, earned him enemies on the force very quickly.

"Anderson tried to take a swing at him today," Lestrade was saying one evening. He met Mycroft once a month at the Diogenes Club to give him updates on Sherlock over a glass of scotch.

"Anderson?"

"Forensics Officer," Lestrade explained. "Bit of an idiot, and  _really_ annoying. But he's good at his job. Well, not according to Sherlock."

"Will this  _Anderson_ be a problem?" _  
_

Lestrade's eyes darkened.

"Oi, don't get any ideas," he said. "Anderson's annoying, but he  _was_ provoked. You know Sherlock. He gets under your skin if you let him."

"Of course," said Mycroft. He took a swig from his glass and felt some of the tension leave his body. "What did he say that made Anderson want to hit him?"

"Something about him and Donovan -- one of the junior officers -- they've been having an affair. We all know, of course, but Sherlock's the first one to say it."

"Otherwise he's been helpful?"

"Yeah, he's been great. Solved twice as many cases for us in six months as we usually get through in two years."

Mycroft nodded.

"No signs of relapse?"

"None whatsoever."

*          *           *

Six months later Victor Trevor was found dead in his cell, and Sherlock went missing again.

"How was he killed?" Mycroft demanded over the phone with Lestrade.

"Altercation with a fellow inmate," said Lestrade. "I don't know the specifics --"

"And Sherlock?"

"Won't answer his phone, not at his flat... we were right in the middle of a case, too. He always replies for cases."

"You're absolutely sure it's unrelated to the investigation?" Mycroft pressed.

"Jewelry theft. I doubt they're into abduction as well."

"How would he even have  _known_ about Trevor?"

"Maybe one of the officers said something? I don't know, Mycroft. The point is, he's missing, and if ever there was going to be a danger night, it's tonight."

Mycroft sighed.

"I agree," he said. "Call me the instant you hear anything."

"Of course," was Lestrade's reply.

*          *          *

Both Mycroft and Lestrade had officers out searching for nearly seventy-two hours before resources began to be pulled. by the end of the third night, they were only given permission to run standard surveillance scans. Mycroft offered incentives to CCTV operators to keep extra watch, but these turned up nothing.

Then, on the morning of the fourth day, Mycroft received a call.

"Phone for you, sir," Anthea told him, holding out her mobile.

"If it's the Prime Minister, I have to cancel our meeting," said Mycroft absently, running his hands through his thinning hair. "The Korean elections will sort themselves out eventually anyway --"

"It's not the Prime Minister, sir, it's about Sherlock --"

In what he would later concede was a rather undignified display, Mycroft lunged across his desk and snatched the mobile from Anthea's hand.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver. "Who is this?"

There was a long pause, and then a melodic, lilted voice responded.

"Mycroft Holmes," said the voice. "It's been a while. Pleasure to finally be speaking to you directly."

A lump formed in Mycroft's throat.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Oh, come now," replied the voice. "You know exactly who I am."

Mycroft did.

"James Moriarty."

"Yes, good. Very good. They told you were very clever."

"You have information about Sherlock?" Mycroft snapped.

"Oi!" Moriarty cried indignantly. "That's awfully rude. I called so that we could finally have a proper chat, and all you can do is bring baby brother into this --"

"I'm going to hang up now --"

"If you do, you'll never find Sherlock in time."

Mycroft paused.

"What do you want from me?" he asked.

"Oh, I want a lot of things from you Mycroft," Moriarty answered. "It really depends on how much you're willing to give for information about your brother."

"Anything," Mycroft replied quickly. He kicked himself mentally for giving in so easily.

Moriarty seemed surprised.

"Anything?"

"Anything."

Moriarty chuckled.

"I think we're going to get along just fine, Mycroft Holmes."

*          *          *

They almost didn't find Sherlock in time.

It was Mycroft who led the charge, under protest from Lestrade. And it was Mycroft who found Sherlock in the basement of Trevor's old house collapsed on the floor with a tourniquet around his arm and a needle in his hand.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft dropped to the floor next to his brother and cradled his head gently between his hands. "Sherlock, wake up!"

"Get the paramedics in here, now!" Lestrade ordered.

Mycroft was barely listening.

"Sherlock," he repeated, tapping his brother's face lightly. "Sherlock, please --"

Sherlock moaned something unintelligible and his eyes blinked open slowly.

"Stay with me, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Can you hear me?"

"-- Vic... Victor..."

"He's waiting for you, Sherlock," Mycroft lied. "He's waiting, Sherlock, but you have to stay awake, alright?"

Sherlock began mumbling again, then coughing violently. Mycroft rolled him gently onto his side just as vomit spewed from his mouth. Mycroft looked on in horror.

"Where are the paramedics?" Mycroft demanded.

"They're on their way down," Lestrade assured him.

"Hold on, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered. He stroked his brother's hair softly as Sherlock's body began convulsing. "Hold on."

He didn't realize until a drop of liquid landed on Sherlock's cheek that he'd started to cry.

*          *          *

"How did you know where he was going to be?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft and the DI had been perched in the hospital waiting room for nearly two hours waiting for news of Sherlock. Neither of them had spoken a word until a nurse came to inform them that Sherlock would recover. Mycroft was immensely grateful for Lestrade's lack of interrogation, though he knew he would have to answer questions eventually. Now that Sherlock was in the clear, it seemed the time for sensitivity had passed.

"An anonymous tip to my office," said Mycroft. "I had my people try to trace the call. No luck."

A quiver in Lestrade's brown indicated he didn't fully buy the story, but to Mycroft's relief, he didn't press the matter.

"Why would Sherlock do this to himself?" the DI asked instead. "Trevor was his dealer, sure, but why --?"

"We'll probably never know the nature of my brother's relationship with Trevor," said Mycroft tiredly.

"You think they were together?"

Mycroft frowned.

"Possibly," he said. "Probably. Whatever the case may be, I think he needed Trevor."

"For what? A fix?"

"More than that. He needed a distraction."

At that moment, the nurse returned.

"You're free to see him now," she said. "He probably won't wake for another couple of hours, and he looks terrible, so be prepared."

Lestrade and Mycroft stood.

"Right this way --"

She led them down the corridor to a room with a single bed. Mycroft hardly recognized the figure that lay in it -- Sherlock had grown thin and gaunt since Mycroft had last seen him. His cheekbones looked as if they might cut through his face... his very pale, almost lifeless face. If it weren't for the monitors beeping beside the bed, Mycroft might have assumed the worst.

"I think I'll head out," Lestrade whispered. "Leave you alone --"

Mycroft didn't even know if he was able to muster a goodbye. He was transfixed by Sherlock's appearance. How young he seemed. In sleep, Mycroft could almost glimpse the small boy he taught deductions to. But that boy had disappeared long ago.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered. "What have you done?"

*          *          *

Mycroft didn't take a government car to this new destination. He didn't take a car at all, in fact. A large cap covered his face from the cameras as he shuffled on to the Underground a midst a sea of ordinary Londoners, all going about their average, boring days. Nobody paid him any attention.

He'd told no one where he was going or who he was meeting. Officially, he was still on personal leave. No one from work would come looking for him. Mummy and Father thought he'd gone home for a change of clothes and a shower. He wasn't expected back at the hospital until morning.

Plenty of time to commit treason, he thought dryly to himself.

The train slowed to a halt at Westminster station. Mycroft filed out with the other passengers, but instead of following the herd upstairs to ground level he veered off to the left and down a corridor until he came to an entrance marked "Staff Only." He checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then stepped inside. 

He found himself in a rather spacious storage closet -- mops, brooms, and various cleaning detergents lined the walls on neat little shelves. There was a man already in the room with his back to the door; he dressed in a custodial uniform and had a key ring clipped to his belt.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and then said, "I've come to discuss this week's order."

The man gave no immediate indication that he had heard Mycroft. After a moment, he replied without turning.

"Hello, Mycroft."

Mycroft started.

"I didn't expect you would meet me yourself," he said.

"Normally I wouldn't," Moriarty replied, still with his back to the other man. "I thought I might as well, seeing as we're beginning an essential partnership."

At last, he turned. Mycroft was  _shocked_ at how young Moriarty appeared. He knew, of course, after examining the records that James Moriarty was around Sherlock's age -- barely older than thirty -- but seeing Moriarty's smooth, unwrinkled features was nonetheless jarring. His eyes, however, told a completely different story. They were dark and ancient. At a glance, they seemed almost dead, but something unsettling moved in them just below the surface. Mycroft was struck with the image of looking into deep water and seeing some threatening creature lurking just out of sight.

"You brought what I asked for?" Moriarty asked.

"Yes," said Mycroft, snapping out of his reverie. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, black, unassuming flash drive, which he tossed at Moriarty, who caught it one-handed.

"How's Sherlock?" Moriarty asked, sounding bored.

Mycroft wanted to tell him to mind his own business, but was afraid how the other man might retaliate.

"Recovering," he said through pursed lips. "Our parents are waiting diligently by his bedside for him to wake up. He returns to rehab next week."

"My condolences." Moriarty slipped the flash drive into his pocket. "I'd say goodbye now, but I expect you have questions --"

"A few," Mycroft confirmed.

"Of course." Moriarty's mouth curved upward into a smirk. "Fire away."

"You killed Victor Trevor."

"Not directly," said Moriarty. "I've got many contacts making their way through the system, though. I suppose I've got you to thank for that."

"Then you knew of my brother's... connection with him?"

"Mycroft Holmes," said Moriarty with a low chuckle. "I expect I know more about Sherlock than even you do. Now, if that's all --"

He made a motion to exit, but Mycroft moved to block his path.

"Your quarrel is with me," Mycroft said. "Why are you bringing Sherlock into this?"

Moriarty fixed Mycroft with a cold stare. The monsters lurking in the depths of his eyes suddenly appeared much closer to the surface.

"You're right, Mycroft," he said. "My quarrel  _is_ with you, and that's  _exactly_ why I bring Sherlock into this."

He pushed past Mycroft effortlessly and exited, shutting the door quietly behind him. Mycroft stood frozen in his place for several minutes, still remembering the monsters in those dark eyes.

* * *

 

 

"Interesting, that soldier fellow," Mycroft said to Anthea as he watched the two forms walk off into the night. "He could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade three, Active."

Anthea looked up from her Blackberry, oblivious.

"Sorry, sir, whose status?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the retreating pair.

"Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. Watson."

* * *

 

 

John Watson was a tremendously good influence on Sherlock Holmes, all sources confirmed. Fewer harassment lawsuits crossed Mycroft's desk. Mrs. Hudson didn't kick him out of the flat within the first month, as the landlord on Montague Street had. Lestrade reported that Sherlock was much more pleasant during cases -- the number of insults he flung at Donovan and Anderson was cut nearly in half -- which he now solved even more quickly than before. Overall, Sherlock was becoming a _better_ man.

And that had Mycroft tremendously worried.

Worried, because in March of 2011, John was abducted by Moriarty. Suddenly, Mycroft's adversary had all the ammunition necessary to topple Mycroft's world.

Mycroft foolishly believed he could intercede. When the Bond Air scheme was thwarted, he used Irene Adler's testimony as grounds to bring Moriarty in for interrogation; to keep him off the streets long enough to get a step ahead. By the time he'd realized his mistake, it was too late.

Sherlock took the error surprisingly well, after indulging in a bit of snide chastising.

"Really, _brother dear_ ," he said, "are you that  _naiive?"_

"Save it, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "You realize what this means, don't you?"

"Of course," said Sherlock. "He'll destroy my reputation, and I'll have to disappear."

"Not only that," said Mycroft. "He wants to destroy  _you_." Not entirely true. "John isn't safe."

Sherlock stiffened. "How would hurting John destroy me?" he deflected.

Mycroft didn't dignify that question with an answer. Sherlock shook his head and changed the subject.

"You have a plan?"

"Naturally," said Mycroft. "You won't like it."

"That's hardly new."

*          *          *

Mycroft in no way expected a very angry John Watson to appear at his office later that June with a copy of Kitty Reilly's article in hand and accusations ready to fling. He confessed, of course, to his error -- how he'd sold Sherlock's story to Moriarty in exchange for information on the movement of terrorist cells. John listened quietly, though his frame was buzzing with fury as he glared at Mycroft from his chair.

"So it's one big lie," said John when Mycroft had finished, "'--Sherlock's a fraud -- but people  _will_ swallow it because the rest of it's true." John leaned forward. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, hm? And you have given him the  _perfect_ ammunition."

Mycroft didn't respond to the jab at first. He was too busy studying John; he knew, of course, how his brother felt about the good doctor (no matter how he tried to deny it), but he never anticipated seeing the same loyalty and devotion returned by John Watson. Suddenly, Mycroft regretted every detail of the scheme he and his brother had cooked up.

"John," he said gently, wishing he could prepare the soldier for what was to come, and knowing he couldn't. All he could say instead was, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, please," John scoffed, rising to his feet.

"Tell him, would you," Mycroft begged.

_Tell Sherlock you love him. He'll need it._

*           *           *

_LAZARUS is go._

_SEND_

*          *          *

Later that evening, Mycroft reveled in the quiet of his office. It had been a very busy day indeed, beginning with a rather awkward conversation with his parents that morning. Sherlock was currently hiding at their house awaiting his flight to Nepal the following day. Then, of course, the incident occurred. Mycroft had fled immediately to the Diogenes Club, where he wouldn't be forced to play the role of grieving brother to those who wished to offer condolences. He received messages throughout the day updating him on Sherlock's status, and once he had been assured that his brother was secure, he locked himself in his office.

John had phoned several times throughout the day, both on Mycroft's mobile and his office number. He wanted to know about funeral arrangements. Mycroft would have to provide him with Sherlock's will tomorrow. He sent John a quick text to let him know this fact. He hoped that would placate the man until the morning.

Molly Hooper, Sherlock's homeless network, and their parents would all have to be debriefed the next day as well, once Sherlock was well on his way out of the country. Mycroft didn't allow himself to dwell on that.

Mycroft's mobile chimed.

_Probably John again_ , he thought wearily as he flicked the screen on.

A message from an unknown number.

_Enjoy the show today? -- X_

Mycroft dropped the phone in shock. As he reached to pick it up, it chimed again.

_Arrange a meeting for tomorrow afternoon? We must have a chat.  -- X_

Before Mycroft could fathom how to respond, another message came:

_After Sherlock's gone, of course. Wouldn't want him to suspect anything -- X_

The only thing Mycroft could think in reply was to ask,  _How?_

He only received a time and place in answer.

*          *          *

"Odd place to choose to meet," he said as he ducked under the police tape.

"Really?" Moriarty replied, eyes fixed on his mobile screen. "I find it rather fitting."

A light breeze ruffled past them. Mycroft swept his gaze from the London skyline and back to the center of the rooftop where a large red pool stained the concrete. It was dry now, of course, but still vibrant.

"Want to know how I did it?" Moriarty asked. He pressed one last button on his phone and pocketed it.

"I figured it out in about ten minutes," said Mycroft with a shrug. "Now I want to know why."

Moriarty looked puzzled.

"You want to know why I  _didn't_ kill myself?" he asked slowly.

"Don't be clever," said Mycroft coldly. "I want to know why you pretended. You could have destroyed Sherlock's reputation without faking your own death. You've been wiped off the map now, and the media will discredit your claims eventually with no one left to support them."

Moriarty sighed.

"You know, every once in a while I think you're about to rise to my level," he said. "Yesterday was one of those times. But then you go and say things like that, and -- well -- I begin to lose all hope --"

"So explain it to me," said Mycroft humorlessly. "Slowly, so I don't  _miss_ anything."

Moriarty smirked at him.

"This --" he gestured vaguely around the rooftop, "--was never about  _destroying_ Sherlock. At least, this part wasn't. I needed to see how far he would go to protect Doctor Watson."

Mycroft laughed.

"Sorry to disappoint," he said, "but as you witnessed yesterday, my brother is not willing to actually  _die_ to keep John safe."

"Oh, please," said Moriarty. "You and I both know that death is easy. Sherlock knows it, too. He's tried to go down that path before, remember? But an infinite amount of time dedicated to wiping out an extensive criminal network, piece by piece, to protect a man who's going to move on with his life and eventually forget he ever existed, that's  _hard_."

Mycroft swallowed, struggling to keep his face impassive.

"It's alright that you've sent him after my associates, by the way," Moriarty went on. "Most of them are dispensable to me. The important ones have stayed close to home. Which brings me to why I've brought you here today --"

"What on  _earth_ makes you think I would help you now?" Mycroft seethed.

"Now, now," said Moriarty, raising his hands in mock defense. "What did I  _just_ say? The part about my important friends being kept close to home? Possibly some of them are keeping a close eye on our charming army doctor. What would Sherlock say, after fighting your battles in distant countries, if he came home to find that John had been killed anyway, and all his efforts were for nothing?"

Mycroft blinked, and remained silent.

Moriarty rose to his feet.

"Take a walk with me," he said. "I'll tell you all about my plan."

As he talked, he led Mycroft back through the stairwell of St. Bart's. Mycroft listened attentively, searching desperately for a loophole in Moriarty's logic, for a crack that he could push against to bring the whole wall down, but could find none.

Eventually, they found themselves beneath the archway that led to the emergency room. Moriarty stopped talking and turned to face Mycroft.

"Think you can manage all that, Mr. Holmes?" he said.

Mycroft sighed.

"I haven't a choice, have I?" he replied.

"You always have a choice, Mycroft," said Moriarty. "You'll have to decide if you can live with the consequences, one way or another."

He pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and put them over his eyes. Then he extended his hand for Mycroft to shake. Mycroft hesitated for a second before he reached out and clasped Moriarty's outstretched hand.

"You'll be hearing from my contact soon," said Moriarty as he dropped his hand.

"And what'll you be doing the next couple of years?" Mycroft asked.

Moriarty smirked.

"Playing dead," he replied.

* * *

 

As promised, Mycroft was contacted by Moriarty's associate later that year. He arranged their first meeting at the end of December at an inconsequential cafe far from Mycroft's office.

"Mycroft Holmes?"

Mycroft looked up from his files when he heard the voice. American. The woman it belonged to was stern-faced, with long dark hair and stiff posture.

He glanced down at his file again.

"Abigail Gretchen Renatta-Altman," he said. "Though since you moved to England, you've been going by Mary Morstan." He looked at her again. "It's unwise of you to drop your cover," he said, "even in the presence of a contact."

"I was told you could be trusted," Mary said with a shrug. "It's nice to be able to be myself when I can."

She sat, and waited for Mycroft to speak again.

"You know why you're here," said Mycroft blankly.

"Actually, I don't," said Mary. "I've only been told that you're the one to give me my new assignment."

"Indeed," said Mycroft. From the folder, he withdrew a picture of John Watson -- the one that was displayed as a profile picture on the man's blog. He passed it across the table to Mary.

"He needs taken out?" she said.

"No," said Mycroft sternly. "Our mutual friend wants him... _monitored_. From a very close distance." 

Mary scowled and passed the picture back to Mycroft.

"I don't do domesticity," she said. "Find someone else."

"Our mutual friend thought you would say that," said Mycroft. "He said if that was the case, I was to tell you that Magnussen is very eager to get back in touch."

Mary's eyes widened. Mycroft offered her the photograph again, which she snatched.

"Jim wants me to get _close_ to this guy?" she said.

"Yes," said Mycroft. "You'd better start doing domesticity, Miss Morstan."

*         *         *

Mycroft arranged for Mary to be hired at John's clinic as a nurse. He watched as she cropped her hair and dyed it blonde (Moriarty's message about Magnussen frightened her enough that she felt the need to change her appearance). He noted, with a small ounce of amusement, that she also began almost aggressively pursuing a friendship with Magnussen's personal assistant.

He watched John Watson fall in love with her.

He felt so guilty, he had to cancel his next several rendez-vous with Sherlock. When he next interacted with his brother, Sherlock was chained to a wall, being beaten by a Serbian thug.

* * *

 

 

"Where's he going to be tonight?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft tried to appear ignorant. It pained him to see how fixated Sherlock was with seeing John.

"How would I know?"

"You always know," said Sherlock.

Mycroft couldn't deny that.

"He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road," said Mycroft. He tried stalling. "Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion, though I prefer the 2001 --"

"I think maybe I'll just drop by," said Sherlock absently.

Mycroft frowned.

"You know," he said, "it is just possible that you won't be welcome."

"No it isn't," said Sherlock defiantly.

_I tried to warn you_ , Mycroft thought as his brother twirled out of the room in his old Bellstaff.

* * *

 

 

"You  _knew_ ," Mary shouted at him, just before Mycroft was able to get the door to his office shut.

"Keep it  _down_ ," Mycroft hissed. "We are  _always_ to meet at public locations, away from my office. This is unacceptable --"

"--you bloody  _knew_ he was alive!" Mary cried.

"-- cannot be seen with you. It will ruin everything!"

"--neither you or Jim saw fit to tell me that your brother is  _alive_!"

"MISS MORSTAN!"

Mary snapped her mouth shut. Mycroft glared at her from behind his desk.

"I gave you the information you  _needed_ to fulfill your assignment," he said in a low voice. "Your orders remain the same."

Mary laughed humorlessly.

"You're  _joking_ ," she said. "This changes everything, don't you see?"

"This changes nothing," Mycroft countered.

"John's in love with him, you know that right?"

Mycroft frowned.

"You're the one wearing the engagement ring, Miss Morstan."

"He's in denial about it, I'll give you that," she said with a wave of her hand. "But it took me all of five minutes into our first date to figure out he's head-over-heels for Sherlock."

Mycroft sighed.

"Your orders remain the same," he repeated.

Mary blinked.

"You poor sod," she said. "In some insane way, you're doing all this to protect him, aren't you?"

Mycroft didn't reply.

"Alright," said Mary resolutely. "I'll do my best. I can't guarantee they won't be shacking up by next Tuesday, though."

"I think it's in everyone's best interest that you ensure that doesn't happen," said Mycroft sadly.

* * *

 

 

Late one July evening, on the day of John and Mary's wedding, Mycroft received two text messages.

The first was from John.

_Sherlock left the wedding early. He didn't say anything to you, did he?_

The second was from Mary.

_I'm pregnant._

He didn't respond to either. He only poured himself a glass of scotch. And then another.

* * *

 

 

Mycroft wasn't an idiot. Sherlock's latest binge had nothing to do with Magnussen's case, whatever he said.

* * *

 

 

"Your agent has gone rogue," he accused into the phone.

"Mary got a bit carried away, I'll admit," said Moriarty. Mycroft noted smugly that he sounded a bit frazzled.

" _Carried away_?" Mycroft repeated. "Sherlock nearly  _died_! I find it hard to believe that even you want that at this stage of the game."

"She'll be dealt with," said Moriarty. "She has collateral now. She can be reasoned with."

Mycroft snorted.

"I hope you're not talking about the baby," he said. "I think she rather resents it."  _Everyone resents it_ , he thought sadly. _  
_

"Why do you think she shot your brother?" Moriarty said. "She's played her role a little too convincingly; she's fooled herself at this point. She'll do whatever it takes to keep Watson and Watson-spawn safe." He paused. "She needs to be reminded that she's our tool, that's all."

_Yours_ , thought Mycroft defiantly.

* * *

 

 

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered as he watched Sherlock lower to his knees with his hands in the air. "What have you done?"

The man on the ground morphed before Mycroft's eyes, turning into the small boy Mycroft had watched when they were younger, the same boy who had dressed as a pirate on his first day of school.

Mycroft was terrified for that boy. For the first time in a long time, he had no idea what would come next.

*           *           *

 

When the knock came on his office door later that night, Mycroft jerked his head up expectantly.

"Come in," he said.

Lestrade entered, much the same man that Mycroft knew from long ago, if a little grayer around the temples. Tonight, though, he looked much older. At Mycroft's hopeful stare, he shook his head.

"No good," he said. "The press have got word. I wasn't able to get him released tonight -- there'd be an uproar."

Mycroft sighed.

"Thank you for trying," he said.

"He's not getting out of this one, Mycroft," said Lestrade grimly. "I agree, Magnussen was a slimeball, but that's not grounds for murder."

"I know," said Mycroft.

" _Why_ would he do this?" said Lestrade. "I don't understand --"

Mycroft had spent hours that night pondering the same question. The search had led him several years back, to his conversation with Lestrade on the night of Sherlock's overdose.

_"I think he needed Trevor."_

_"For what? A fix?"_

_"More than that. He needed a distraction."_

Sherlock had tolerated very few people in his life. All of them had provided something he'd needed. Mycroft had been the teacher. Sherrinford was the image of a perfect man that Sherlock aspired to be. Sebastian Wilkes -- Mycroft had to admit, he couldn't figure  _that_ one out. Victor Trevor was the distraction. And John Watson... what did John Watson give Sherlock that he'd never gotten anywhere else?

When Mycroft realized the answer, he couldn't stop his heart from breaking for his brother.

John was  _everything._ He was Mycroft, Sherrinford, Trevor, and yes, even Sebastian all in one. He was the teacher, the ideal man, the discipline, and the distraction. He was something else, too, in Sherlock's eyes. He was acceptance.

"He's Sherlock," Mycroft told the detective. "He did it to save John Watson."

* * *

 

 

Mycroft was waiting in the car when he got the message. He had been watching his brother's private jet disappear into the sky, and watching John and Mary holding hands on the tarmac as they stared up at the clouds. He checked his phone.

_Change of plans. BBC 1. -- X_

Mycroft flicked on the car's television, almost simultaneously, he received an incoming call from Lady Smallwood.

" _It's on every screen in the country."_

When Mycroft had finished speaking to her, he quickly phoned the jet.

"Hello, little brother," he said when Sherlock answered. "How's the exile going?"

* * *

 

END


End file.
